


Sherlock Ships

by enjolras_lexa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Multi, Not to be taken seriously, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, This Is STUPID, Very Dumb, What-If, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-11 15:33:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7898155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolras_lexa/pseuds/enjolras_lexa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically random one-shots pairing sherlock with different characters. Some will have sexual content. This is a bad summary so don't judge the work based on this lol</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is John Watson/Sherlock Holmes, taking place during their first meeting.

When I walked into the room, I had no idea what I was expecting from my potential flat-mate, but the reality was much better than any preconceived idea I might have had. 

There he was, intensely working on something I couldn't even begin to understand, while I could only stop in my tracks and stare.

I watched him talk to the pretty young woman who obviously was in love with him, but he seemed so disinterested as to be totally oblivious as to her existence, never mind her feelings. 

When he asked to borrow a phone from the man who introduced us, and was refused, I immediately offered my own. I would've offered him my soul, had he needed to borrow it for a moment. 

As my phone changed hands and his darkly intense stare was fixed on me, I was so overwhelmed that I almost missed his question. 

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He inquired. 

When he turned to go, I was annoyed. We had hardly even spoken, we certainly knew nothing about each other. When I voiced my concern, he turned that cold yet heated stare of his on me again, and I shivered. 

As he spoke, revealing more of my secrets with every word, I was so taken aback I wouldn't have been surprised to learn he could read my thoughts as well as the clues on my body. He knew me well, though it was only our first meeting. 

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." This smooth declaration was followed swiftly by a wink that made my heart clench. 

What was happening to me?


	2. Ohhhhh

Sherlock lay awake in bed, as he often did, thinking and analyzing, only his brilliant brain wasn't moving towards solving a case or a mystery. Not a murder mystery anyway. His thoughts were dominated by none other than the as yet unsolved mystery of a woman. The Woman, for for Sherlock there were no other women besides her. 

He could picture her quite clearly in his mind, and he often did. Especially clear in his memory was their first meeting. 

When Irene Adler walked into that room without so much as a stitch of clothing on, sauntering in all hips and confidence as though she ruled the world, all coherent thought fled from his mind and indeed every rational thought he'd ever had seemed to disappear only to be replaced by raw untamed want for the goddess in front of him. 

Not that he'd let it show. Master of self-control that he was, he hasn't even gone so far as to let his face register surprise, let alone any stronger emotion. All the times she'd flirted at him over text he could hear her voice whispering in his ear sensually, wreaking havoc with his precious control, but he'd never even let himself reply. 

As if on cue, his phone moaned.   
"Ohhhhh." 

The sound went straight to the part of his body that wanted her the most, taking all his willpower not to moan himself. 

He shut his eyes, letting himself imagine what would happen if he did allow himself to be with her, to feel what in the past he had only fantasized about. To feel her move under him, to kiss the place where her neck met her collarbone, to feel that whip of hers in a more sexual context....... 

His body reacted noticeably at the mere thought, dragging him deeper into the fantasy as he stroked himself through the fabric of his pants. 

He would start by gently caressing her face with his fingertips, feeling the soft pale skin and sharp cheekbones so like his own and yet so much more different. He would draw her closer, running a thumb across her lower lip, then replacing the digit with his mouth as he held her in a bruising kiss. He'd spear one hand through her hair, running the other down her back, grabbing a firm hold on one hip to draw her ever closer to his prominent arousal, their tongues battling for dominance all the while. Perhaps she'd be the submissive one for a change, moaning into his ear as he pinned her to the nearest wall. Or perhaps he'd submit to her, blindfolded and handcuffed to the headboard as she ran her hands all over his body, teasing him mercilessly, forcing him to obey. 

It would be rough, that was a certainty. No sentiment, no sweetness, no glimmer of shy innocent lovemaking. All that would be abandoned, gone forever in favour of whiplashes burning into delicate skin, teeth nipping and mouth sucking on every available surface, all fire and moans and filthy words. 

Sherlock arched into his hand, forcing himself not to make noise and risk waking anyone, but instead biting his sheets to stifle his noises while furiously pumping his hand up and down on his burning hot hardness. 

"Ohhhh." His phone went off again, driving him over the edge with a soft, nearly inaudible moan of his own.


	3. Tease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little ooc, but still good. I hope. Enjoy!

John Watson watched his roommate from behind the cover of his morning newspaper, discreetly (or so he hoped) registering his every movement. He'd never really been attracted to a man like that before, but then again he'd never known a man like Sherlock before. 

The man in question was currently at his computer, typing away in a frenzy. Probably on his website, John surmised, writing about cigarette ash or some such nonsense. 

John sneaked a peek at the laptop. Bacteria. He was writing at great length about the different particles found on a decomposing body. John was suddenly enraged. For some reason that he didn't want to think about too hard, he longed desperately to be given the same attention Sherlock gave bacteria. Time to take a stand. 

John excused himself from the room, muttering to Sherlock about going to take a quick shower. Half an hour later, he called for his roommate to come to his aid. 

"Sherlock! I've forgotten my towel in my room. Can you get it for me?" 

He was met with silence. 

"Sherlock!"

"WHAT!" 

"My towel! In my room! I need it please!" 

"Fine." 

Watson heard footsteps, then a knock on the bathroom door. He opened it, revealing Sherlock with the towel that (of course) John had left in his room on purpose. 

"Thanks." said John, while partially but not completely hidden behind the door. He wrapped the towel around his waist, showing a lot of flesh in the process. For a moment, he thought he had almost seen Sherlock's eyes glance downwards (was he even blushing a bit?) but it was so imperceptible Watson couldn't be certain. 

Sherlock merely went back down to work on his article, though it took him a while to regain his concentration. 

John came back downstairs, clad in a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a flannel shirt, which he left unbuttoned to show off his toned stomach and chest. 

"Can you get my phone for me?" Sherlock asked presently, as he often did. 

"Where is it?" 

"Inside jacket pocket." 

"The one you're wearing? Can't be bothered?" 

"Mm hmm." 

John Watson walked over to where his roommate sat, as intent on his work as Sherlock was. He stood close behind his chair, leaning down to reach the pocket as his own bare chest touched Sherlock's shoulder. He moved the jacket aside, brushing his hand over his chest in the process, before roughly plunging his hand into the pocket to bring out the phone. He could swear Sherlock's breath hitched slightly, but aside from that Sherlock barely even noticed him. 

"Thanks." Sherlock aimed a nod vaguely in his direction, all his attention focused on the phone. 

After a few days of events rather like the ones already described, Watson became quite discouraged. It seemed that Sherlock was to be forever oblivious to his feelings. Sherlock hadn't even remarked upon John's change in behaviour, and Sherlock remarked upon everything. 

One day, John came down to the living room to find Sherlock glued to his microscope. They exchanged details about their current case, during which Sherlock never even so much as looked up from his work. However, when John turned to leave, Sherlock stopped him. 

"Wait." 

John paused in the doorway, brow furrowed slightly. 

"John," Sherlock began, "I make my living based on my observations. I might seem oblivious to sentiment, and most times I am, but in your case I always know exactly what you mean. Now let me tell you something: I know more about sex than you can possibly imagine. I don't only work out my frustrations on things incapable of human emotion, such as corpses, Moriarty, and my brother, and I know my way around more than a riding crop. Believe me when I say you are playing with fire, and you don't want to toy with me." 

All the while, Sherlock's fingers were dancing nimbly around his microscope, causing John to wonder (not for the first time) what exactly a violinist as skilled as Sherlock could be capable of doing with his hands. John shivered. 

"Is that all?" he asked, feigning nonchalance. 

"For the moment, yes." 

Sherlock hasn't even glanced at John the entire time, but now John could clearly register a flirty smirk plastered on Sherlock's face. 

When John left the apartment building, his phone buzzed from inside his pocket. Opening it, he read a text from Sherlock that made him shiver once again. 

"Tonight, my room, 8:00. I'll be waiting."


	4. To Reveal Yourself to Me

Since Sherlock's death, nothing has been the same for Greg Lestrade. His thoughts seemed to be constantly focused on the detective, not that they hadn't been before but now it was worse. 

Before, he hadn't loathed Anderson for making him believe Sherlock was a fraud. Before, he hadn't abandoned all hope of ever loving anyone else ever again, abandoning his wife in the process. Before, he wasn't tormented by the guilt he still felt over Sherlock's suicide. 

Even two years after the fact, he was unable to think about anyone besides Sherlock. Sure, he had his cases, his work. But love, love was a different matter all together. 

In the beginning, he'd figured he'd better get used to being alone, especially in the bedroom. It wasn't like he didn't have.....appetites. He'd take care of the problem himself from now on, that was the only real difference. It wasn't as though he'd intended to fantasize about.......he had just popped into his head that was all. It wasn't as though he hasn't fantasized about him in the past......but it was different now he supposed. So what? he thought in the end. So it was a bit morbid to still be fantasizing about Sherlock bloody Holmes. He wasn't hurting anyone, and no one would be the wiser, or so he (wrongly) thought. 

 

******

Sherlock crept into Lestrade's dark and silent house. Since his return to London, he'd been carefully letting his friends know of his not-dead status. Well, Molly and Mrs Hudson knew. He wanted to tell John, obviously, but he'd been putting it off. 

And now he was going to tell Lestrade. Of course, Lestrade was probably asleep now. He'd stay in the spare room he'd stayed in so often before in a drug-induced stupor, wake up early, and surprise the DI with a cup of coffee in the morning. There was no sense in going without a good night's sleep after all, he reasoned. 

Sherlock carefully climbed the stairs, remembering which ones creaked and avoiding them easily. He silently padded past Lestrade's partially open door, pausing when he heard a noise. 

Cocking his head to one side, he listened attentively, wondering what could be the cause of such a sound. He heard it again, a low moan. Perhaps Lestrade was being tortured. Worried for his safety, Sherlock quietly pushed the door further open, his jaw dropping in shock at what he saw. 

Lestrade's head was thrown back against his pillow, his sheet cast away to one side revealing all that was taking place. He was completely naked, stroking himself furiously, moaning intermittently. 

Sherlock averted his eyes, intending to slip away before he embarrassed the poor man in addition to startling him out of his wits, when he heard his own name. He looked up again, certain Lestrade had seen him and was angry, but the other man hasn't even opened his eyes. 

"Sherlock," he moaned. "Oh yes, Sherlock please. Sherlock." 

Sherlock smirked slightly, coming back into the room and slamming the door loudly behind him, causing Lestrade to jump. 

Sherlock watched the DI process, each second seeming to him to last hours. 

"Sherlock! What-!" slowly it dawned on him. "Wait...oh you bastard. So you're alive are you?" 

"Evidently." 

Lestrade covered himself with the sheet hurriedly, though after what Sherlock had just seen there was no need for any attempt at modesty. The thin fabric barely hid his body at all, never mind Lestrade's all too conspicuous arousal. 

"I was just, uh. How long have you been standing there?" His face contorted into a slight grimace of embarrassment. 

"Long enough to hear you moaning my name," Sherlock flippantly replied. 

His normally intense stare took on a new quality Lestrade had never seen before. There was a new passion there, dark and mysterious passion. His voice was all sex and they hadn't even begun yet. Lestrade shivered. 

"I-" 

Whatever he'd been about to say was quickly silenced as Sherlock closed the remaining distance between them and planted his lips on Lestrade's. Lestrade happily gave in to the kiss, falling back against the bed again as Sherlock slid on top of him. The DI grasped Sherlock's coat collar as the detective deftly began unbuttoning his shirt. 

Shirt and coat were unceremoniously discarded on to the floor, soon followed by his boots. Lestrade undid the belt fastening one-handedly, not even bothering to break their lip-lock, and roughly slid his hand inside his trousers. Sherlock groaned deeply, thrusting into Lestrade's hand, before kicking away the restricting garment to join the pile of clothing next to the bed. 

Soon enough only the thin sheet separated their bodies, then was cast aside altogether. They broke the kiss abruptly, looking for a moment into each other's eyes. Sherlock lowered his head once more, but this time it was barely a brush of the lips, sweet almost, and certainly gentler than before. Then he planted his mouth to Lestrade's collarbone and sucked. 

Lestrade groaned, knowing he'd have to take pains to hide that mark tomorrow but for now merely revelling in the fact that tonight he belonged to Sherlock. 

The detective gently kissed his way down Lestrade's body, finally reaching his throbbing cock and taking him in his mouth with practiced ease. He took him to the edge, then held off, not allowing him to let go. It was maddening. 

"Bedside drawer," Lestrade managed between gasps. "Inside. Now. Need you." 

Sherlock lunged for the drawer, covered himself with a condom, then slicked his length thoroughly. His free hand teased Lestrade's entrance all the while, preparing him for what was to come. 

He gently pushed himself inside, agonizingly slow, picking up the pace only when he was sure Lestrade's body had adjusted properly. He thumbed the tip of Lestrade's scalding cock, resuming their kiss as Lestrade clutched at his disheveled dark curls.


	5. I do care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait! Thank you for your patience. Stay tuned: there's a new chapter of Falling For You coming to a theatre near you so if you're reading that fic keep an eye out. 
> 
> This is a reward for the Sherlolly shippers, but there will be Johnlock and Sheriarty very soon I promise.

Molly trembled as Sherlock's words gradually revealed everything, as usual. 

It was at the Christmas party. Sherlock had deduced that a parcel was for a young man Molly was interested in, eventually getting so swept up in his own brilliance that he failed to see the obvious: the man Molly was in love with was him. 

******* 

Molly's voice shook as she spoke. She had just been humiliated in front of all her friends by the man she had been falling over herself trying to impress. 

"You- You always say such horrible things. Always. Always." 

With that, she turned away from the festivities and exited the room, slamming the front door behind her. Everyone heard the sob she had been holding back until she could be alone. 

John turned to Sherlock in a vain attempt to persuade him to go after her and apologize, but to his astonishment Sherlock was already on his way out the door. 

*********

Molly turned towards the door when she heard it open. She was ready. She could take any pity John or Mrs Hudson were undoubtedly about to offer her. She had just mustered up a convincing 'I'm fine,' when she saw that the one who had followed her out was Sherlock himself. 

Sherlock closed the door softly behind him. He quickly closed the remaining steps between himself and Molly, his stride powerful and deliberate. 

Before either of them could speak, Sherlock pulled Molly in close and kissed her full on the lips. His hands tangled in her beautiful hair as his tongue masterfully caressed hers. 

Once Molly got over her surprise, she put all the love and hurt she had been holding back into kissing the man she cared about most in the world. 

Sherlock kissed her harder, passionately, pressing her against the wall and allowing her to feel how much he wanted her. Molly groaned softly into his mouth, and before she could stop herself she was running her hands along his chest and sides. Sherlock followed her lead, though he was far less innocent with his hands. She wrapped her legs around his waist, delicately rolling her hips against his, and slipping a hand beneath the waist of his trousers. Sherlock inhaled sharply, stifling a compromising noise. 

They couldn't do this in the middle of the hallway. There would be plenty of time for that later. 

Sherlock pulled away. He straightened his clothing, and cleared his throat. 

"Sorry, again. About earlier I mean. I know I don't always say the right things." 

All Molly could do was gape at him. She honestly didn't know whether she was more shocked at their makeout session or Sherlock's almost-apology. 

Sherlock leaned in, chastely pecking her on the cheek. 

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he whispered into her ear. He winked at her as he pulled back, his dark eyes full of dark promises that he silently pledged to fulfil the next time they were alone together.


End file.
